


it steals all my reason

by theredtailedhawkwithjewelsforeyes



Category: The Witcher (TV), Wiedźmin | The Witcher - All Media Types
Genre: Hurt/Comfort, Introspective Angst, Jaskier | Dandelion Whump, POV Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia, Pneumonia, Protective Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia, Sickfic
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-01-18
Updated: 2020-01-18
Packaged: 2021-02-27 12:40:24
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,382
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/22297204
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/theredtailedhawkwithjewelsforeyes/pseuds/theredtailedhawkwithjewelsforeyes
Summary: The worst thing, Geralt thinks, is the quiet. There is no singing, just the heavy labour of breaths hard-won.
Relationships: Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia/Jaskier | Dandelion
Comments: 135
Kudos: 1620
Collections: Abby's Witcher Collection, Best Geralt, FF, GERALT AND JASKIER ARE FUCKING GAY, oh YES





	it steals all my reason

**Author's Note:**

> all of u: but havent u written the exact same fic like f  
> me: (her sweet kiss playing on max volume) cant hear you. thinking about tenderness

Jaskier is ill. 

Geralt does not have much experience with sick people, and so at first he’d tried to ignore it. They’d both tried to ignore it, actually, just carrying on, business as usual, nothing to see here, move along, and it’d been pretty much fine, except. Well. He should’ve known, because his whole life is a study in how incredibly breakable regular humans are, and especially Jaskier despite everything (how many times has he seen the bard nearly die? Too many)- he should’ve known that it’s not as simple as waiting for the problem to go away. 

Jaskier is ill. Jaskier is ill, and while at first it had been just red faced coughing, a sort of crackle when he breathes, a sour note in his scent- 

Jaskier is ill. Jaskier is sick. Geralt’s mind keeps returning to this fact like it can’t quite believe it, somehow. It doesn’t seem _right_ , that Jaskier had been cheerfully ignoring his cough just a week before and  _ now- _

Jaskier is ill. He’s spread out on the bed in the stifling hot room, glistening all over with sweat. Great drops of it soaking the sheets, even though when Jaskier sweats it’s usually more of a polite kind of dew. He is so very pale. He looks like he’s dying. He looks fragile and very human, and his familiar heartbeat isn’t as strong as it should be, and his scent is all sickness and sweat and rot.

Geralt is afraid. Helplessly, terribly afraid. Because last night, Jaskier had said ‘oh, I’m just a little dizzy,” and now he is corpse pale on the bed, and Geralt has let him into his fortress-heart and Jaskier might die. 

“Geralt,” Jaskier says, voice almost unrecognizably small. “Please, please, please-” 

“Please what,” Geralt asks, on his knees by the bed like he wouldn’t do for anybody else. “Please _what_ , Jaskier- damnit, bard, what do you need-” 

Jaskier’s eyes are closed, though. Talking in his sleep. 

-

Geralt has seen a lot of humans die and he has never let himself care. They are temporary creatures, easily injured, here one moment and gone the next. He has watched Jaskier age ten years and change with it, almost mercurial in his quickness. Twenty years old when he’d approached him in a tavern, a different man at thirty. Still quick and irritating and chatty and loud but wiser, somehow. A different sort of light in his eyes. Fine lines and tiredness. Not quite so impulsive, just as loyal. A Witcher stays the same and humans change and that is the nature of things. 

He had known that he would watch Jaskier die when he had decided to love him anyway. He had thought, he had hoped, that they would have time enough. His bard, larger than life, making up for time lost by being ten lifetimes wrapped into one. 

-

Geralt calls a healer. The healer looks grim. 

She says: “I’ll see what I can do.” 

-

Jaskier is ill. He is a small furnace when usually he runs cold, heating up the entire room. When Geralt tries to peel his blankets away, though, he lets out a noise that’s so helplessly unhappy that Geralt’s heart cracks down the middle. 

“Jaskier,” he says, trying for calm, trying for reasonable, “you have a fever, you’re too warm-” 

“I’m so cold,” Jaskier says. His voice is small. Weak and bloodless. Geralt puts a hesitant hand on his boiling forehead, smooths that mess of curls back, tries to think. 

“Listen to me, bardling, please. I can’t let you have the blankets back, you’re too warm as it is. Just trust me. You’re going to be fine.” 

Jaskier subsides, meekly. It makes Geralt feel like hell. He presses a kiss to his bard’s hair, convinces himself that he’s telling the truth.

-

His bard stinks of fear and sickness. He tosses and turns and mutters under his breath, voice hoarse and nonsensical. He talks about being afraid and he cries out “stop it, please,  _ please _ ,”, and Geralt needs him to live. 

There are two healers, now. Geralt doesn’t care about the cost. They lift Jaskier’s head and tilt potions down his throat, but everytime they try a broth it’s spit weakly back up. Three days of this and Jaskier is looking thin- another two and he’s all bones. The roundness in his cheeks is melting away and Geralt draws a thumb over those cheekbones and murmurs that it’s going to be just fine, bardling, just fine. 

(If the healers are confused by a hulking Witcher crouched at the bedside of a bard, they don’t say anything.)

-

The worst thing, Geralt thinks, is how pliable Jaskier is like this. His screams are hushed with a few simple words, a hand holding his. There’s no arguing, no complaining, just white knuckles and a grip Geralt can hardly feel.

-

The worst thing, Geralt thinks, is the quiet. There is no singing, just the heavy labour of breaths hard-won. 

-

The worst thing, Geralt thinks, is the huffed out noises Jaskier makes. Half whimpers that are too much for his sore throat. Secrets hardly whispered that Geralt shouldn’t know and can’t make himself stop listening to.

(Someone named Julien is dead. Jaskier hated hated hated his family. Jaskier will not stop saying his name, over and over, frightened and happy and breathed out on the exhale.)

-

A whole week of hanging between life and death. 

His fever had gotten worse before it finally broke, soaring so high that Geralt had spent the day wondering how exactly he was supposed to move on from this, but then- 

Geralt closes his eyes, muscles coiled tense as a spring, and Jaskier’s scent changes very subtly. Still sick and frightened but with that familiar, fresh, forest-after-rain sweetness. 

It’s so good, so familiar, that he brings Jaskier’s wrist to his nose and spends a long moment just breathing. Slumps, all at once, kneeling with a frail hand clasped between his own like he's praying.

-

Jaskier opens his eyes. Lovely blue against flushed red cheeks, hazy and perfect.

“You look sad,” he tells Geralt, some of that familiar teasing coming back into his tone. Geralt closes his eyes, lets himself soak it all in. A sunflower turned up to the sun. 

“You’re a fucking idiot,” he says, and then smiles. “I’m not sad. I’m happy.” 

-

He helps Jaskier up, into a bath. Nothing sexual- Jaskier leans against his chest, eyes closed tight, his face still too pale but a flush slowly returning. Geralt messages soap into his hair, down his chest, washing away that sweat and sickness. 

It is very quiet, but in a living sort of way. The splash of water, Jaskier’s pleased, tired little noises. The soft noise of his heartbeat, his breathing. The relief in Geralt’s chest is full, bright, bursting, and he bends slightly to press a kiss to Jaskier’s damp forehead. 

Jaskier laughs. “What was that for?” 

Geralt pauses a long moment, thinking, turning it over and over and over in his head. He’s glad Jaskier’s alive, he’s glad Jaskier hadn’t left him alone, he’s glad he can hear that heartbeat and smell that forest again. “I love you,” he says, eventually, and Jaskier makes a noise that’s small and pleased.

“Why, Witcher, you really-” 

“I love you,” Geralt interrupts, ducking his head to hide his smile against wet curls. Jaskier laughs, sweet and musical, and twists to brush their lips together. 

-

Later, they are lying in bed. Jaskier is curled into Geralt’s chest, sleeping soundly, and Geralt has his palm pressed above Jaskier’s heart so he can feel as well as he can hear the blood pumping. 

He had known that he would watch Jaskier die when he had decided to love him anyway. The idea of that is enormous and painful, small and creeping, a path of needles scattered in front of him. A Witcher shouldn’t love, and a Witcher especially shouldn’t love someone so human. 

Destiny is a stupid word, a stupid idea. It takes away people’s choices, people’s families, people’s lives. The idea of not loving Jaskier is impossible, and he will curse destiny when he’s stolen away, but for now-

For now, Jaskier is curled into Geralt’s chest, sleeping soundly. He smells clean again, alive. 

Geralt wouldn’t give it up for anything. 

**Author's Note:**

> this is for me because i like to write things like this where character have to come to terms w shit and also for haruhisuzumiya-san who sent me an ask on tumblr and said "Can you do a good sized one where Jaskier gets sick and Geralt has to take care of him maybe??? And perhaps to give him a bath????" he got sick, geralt gave him a bath, i decided that to spice it up id sprinkle in jaskiers mortality and also its not terribly good-sized SORRY but i hope u like it <3
> 
> if u liked this shoot me a prompt over at redjewelsforeyes.tumblr.com and ill give you a flower that promises everlasting happiness
> 
> ALSO if u liked this pls leave a comment!!! they replenish me like fresh rainwater collected in a little leaf, given to me by a mouse in a tiny hat


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